In Winter's Shadow
by Random Phantom
Summary: Sequel to "Illusion of Peace". A known serial killer with a grudge against Morse and Lewis is back on the streets. Will Morse and Lewis catch him... or will he catch them first?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This story is a sequel to my previous Morse fic, "Illusion of Peace" - if you haven't read it, you may find it helpful to do so, though I suppose this could stand on its own.

I am dedicating this story to **CrazyMaryT**, whose kind reviews have been very much appreciated. Thank you - if not for you, I would probably not have written this. I hope you enjoy it.

**In Winter's Shadow**

The hazy winter sun hung low in the sky, shrouded by misty clouds as it struggled to break dawn over the spires of Oxford. A ground frost clung to every surface, lending an ethereal silver sparkle to the paved streets and grassy college quadrangles. It was so cold that a thin crust of ice had formed on parts of the canal, and the puddles of groundwater along the towpaths were frozen.

It was still early, but already there were a couple of dedicated joggers out, loping along the path, keeping pace with each other, their breath clouding in front of them as they ran. From the opposite direction, a blonde-haired man stepped politely out of their way, allowing them to pass, before he continued on his way down the canal path, climbed a sty, and headed out across a field.

The two joggers barely paid him any attention as they carried on their way. Then, as one, they both slowed down and came to a virtual halt.

"Bloody boaters," the man curled his lip in distaste, staring at the black bin bag dumped by the towpath, half-concealed in the weeds, "I wish they'd take their flaming rubbish with them."

"Gary," the woman beside him grabbed his arm, her eyes widening slightly, "I don't think that's normal rubbish…"

The male jogger, Gary, frowned and took a few steps forward, peering at the bag through the ground-hugging morning mist.

"I think you're right there, Julie," he murmured, "you got your phone…?"

Julie was already pulling the bulky mobile telephone, a brand new piece of technology, from the backpack she was wearing. Gary approached the bag, cautiously. It looked like the contents were wrapped in several other bin-bags, and then tied up with a cable tie. Tears in the outer bag gave little clue as to the contents, but Gary swallowed hard as he approached. There was something all too…human… about the shape…

Summoning his resolve, he leaned forward, and tore open the bag. That was when Julie started screaming.

~*~

"Caucasian female, approximately five feet three inches, long blonde hair, blue eyes, in her early twenties I'd say," Dr Russell said, as Morse listened attentively and Lewis took notes, "cause of death was strangulation, and she was mutilated post-mortem with a small, sharp knife."

"It's him, isn't it?" Lewis murmured, from behind Morse, as he wrote.

Neither Russell nor Morse had to ask who 'he' was – they both remembered a similar case from four years previously, a serial killer who had charted up five victims so far and seemed to have added a sixth to his morbid tally.

"I'd say so," Dr Russell nodded, quietly, "the number six has been carved into her back."

"Bastard," Morse said, through gritted teeth, "Lewis, find out if he's been released, and if so, when – and find out why I wasn't told about it!"

"Aye, sir," Lewis said, still not looking up, "the two joggers who found the body, sir – Gary and Julie Fisher – they're outside if you want a word with them."

"In a moment," Morse grunted, "Doctor… when was she killed?"

"About twenty hours ago, I'd say," Russell replied, covering the woman's face with a sheet, "as usual, I'll know more after the autopsy."

"And did you find…?"

"Yes," Russell cut in, "here."

She held up an evidence bag. Inside, there was a small silver ring, set with stones. Morse scowled, and handed it back wordlessly.

"Thank you, doctor," he said, at last, "your report, as soon as you can, please."

"Of course," Russell nodded, as Morse ducked out of the white crime scene tent.

Back out in the cold, hazy sunshine, Morse took a deep breath to clear his head of the stink of death. He shivered in the cold air, and crossed over to where the two joggers were waiting. Both of them were wrapped in thick red blankets provided by a paramedic, shivering in their thin sports wear.

"I won't keep you long," Morse assured them, "can you tell us what happened, please?"

"We…we were just coming along the towpath here," Gary replied, pointing behind him, "when we saw the bag I thought it was rubbish, but it…it was kind of… body shaped…"

He trailed off and swallowed hard – Morse sympathised, but pressed on.

"Did you see anyone else around – any boaters, or the like?"

"No," Gary shook his head, "oh, hang on – there was a bloke walking from the other way, but I don't know where he went."

"A bloke?" Morse repeated, "what did he look like?"

"Dunno," Gary shrugged, "he was wrapped up in a coat and scarf – can't say I blame him in this weather. I think he had blonde hair – that's all I can remember."

"Yes, well," Morse grunted, "see one of the constables about coming to the station to make a full statement."

He set off at a slow walk down the canal, and Lewis fell in step beside him. They climbed over a sty into a field, and headed back towards the car parked on the road. Morse paused, and glanced back.

"How tall was our victim, Lewis?" he asked, curiously.

"Five-three, sir," the sergeant replied, promptly, "very slim built, too."

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Lewis?"

"That he could have driven here in a car and carried her across the field, dumping her a short way down the towpath," Lewis said, grimly, "quite easily, I'd imagine."

"Agreed," Morse nodded, "a change from usual – he doesn't seem to have used a boat."

Morse led the way back to his car, climbed in, and scowled at the road ahead. Lewis got in next to him, uncharacteristically silent.

"He's back, Lewis," Morse growled at last, turning the key in the ignition and bringing the car to life, "Jeremy Jackson – they've let him out."

~*~

Morse drove them back to the station where they went to their office, both equipped with mugs of hot tea. The heating in the station had broken down, as it traditionally did at the start of every winter. Morse kept his coat on as he sat behind his desk. Lewis hung his on the stand by the door, taking a seat behind his desk and picking up the 'phone in one easy motion.

"Hello? Aye, Lewis – listen, can you get me national missing persons' files from the past couple of days – young women, blonde, about five-three. I also want all the files on Jeremy Andrew Jackson – probably recently released from Farnleigh. Thanks."

He put the phone down, looked down at his desk, across at Morse, at the phone, and eventually settled for staring into his mug of tea. There was a long period of silence. Both of them recalled their previous work on the Jackson case – everyone involved had been outraged at the 'not guilty' verdict returned by the jury, but that was simply because there was no firm forensic evidence to tie the killer to the murders.

"We never did find out where he lived, did we?" Morse mused, "He must have had a home somewhere."

"He seemed to be of no fixed abode," Lewis commented, "hire boats, various hostels and hotels – we never did find out where he got his money from, either."

"We only caught him when he came to us," Morse continued, as if he hadn't heard Lewis, "despite all that work, we didn't really know anything… and we were rushed to go to trial…"

He tapped his fingers on the desk thoughtfully.

"This time, we do it properly," he said, firmly, "start digging, Lewis – our first priority is to identify the victim. Then we need to find Jackson, get him off the streets, and put him away for good."

~*~

﻿


	2. Chapter 2

Later that afternoon, Morse and Lewis were in the familiar confines of the pathology lab. Morse tried to look at anything but the body on the table, as Russell spoke.

"There's not much to add, I'm afraid," she was saying, "I found no hairs or fluids on her that weren't her own. It's Jackson's trademark – strangled, then raped posthumously. He used a condom, from the looks of it. Then he follows it up with the usual mutilations. There were some grey fibres on the body, probably from a carpet. It's not much to go on. Oh, and the piece of jewellery in the bag with her, probably from the last victim."

"Her name is Sandra Nelson," Lewis said, reading from his notepad, "she was reported missing a couple of days ago by her aunt. She was orphaned as a child and raised by her aunt. She worked in a bar in the city centre. We've got the aunt coming in to identify her later."

"Poor thing," Russell sighed, "I wish there was something else I could give you, Morse, but this guy's thorough. I think he must wash the bodies down in a shower or something before he wraps them in the plastic bags."

"That would explain the lack of trace evidence," Morse said, "so, even if we picked him up off the street today, no jury would convict him because there's nothing to tie him to the murder, and he was previously found not guilty."

"It's definitely him," Russell nodded, "the hallmarks are too similar."

"He was released from Farnleigh three months ago," Lewis said, not needing to look at his notes this time, "he went out on parole and then disappeared. There's a warrant out for his arrest already."

"I want to get him on more than just skipping parole," growled Morse.

"There is one other thing I can tell you," Russell said, raising her finger with a coy smile, "Sandra here was killed about twenty hours before she was found – between the time that she was killed and when she was found, she was curled up on her side. There's a mark on her skin, about yea big…"

Russell held up her hands in a small, circular shape.

"… It looks like a plug-hole," she continued, "she was probably lying in a bath, or a shower basin, which would confirm my theory about him washing the body down. That means he must have a house, or a flat, with a bath in it."

"Thank you, doctor," Morse nodded, "anything else?"

"High alcohol content in the blood stream," Russell shrugged, "she was drunk when she died. As I recall, previous victims probably were as well. I'd say he picks them up in bars."

"This one worked in a bar," Morse pointed out.

"So did a couple of the other victims," Lewis added, "but not the same bar."

"Nobody drinks at the bar they work in," Russell said, "if your guy is anything like a typical serial killer, he's a creature of habit, with some flexibility. He probably hangs around at one or two favourite clubs or pubs to pick up the girls."

"We'll look into it," Morse nodded, glancing away from the body squeamishly.

His eyes fell on the shelves around the room – there, perched on high, the skull of a long-dead dog stared down at them. Russell and Lewis caught his gaze and followed it.

"I couldn't bring myself to get rid of Ex," Russell said, by way of explanation.

Morse muttered something about gallows humour, and left without a further word. Lewis managed to raise a ghost of his usual smile, and followed Morse out of the room. They had a lot of work to do.

~*~

A few hours later, they found themselves at the Inferno club on the outskirts of the city centre – a call to Sandra Nelson's boss at the pub she worked in had confirmed that this was where she had been planning to go on the night that she was killed. Their badges earned them entry to the closed club, wherein they found two barmen and a couple of cleaners getting the bar ready for opening that night. Morse produced his badge when one of the barmen glanced up inquisitively.

"Chief Inspector Morse," he announced, "this is Sergeant Lewis, Thames Valley."

"Oh," the young man said, with mild puzzlement, "what do you want?"

Morse tried not to curl his lip in distaste; the barman had several facial piercings, and was heavily tattooed. His hair was dyed green and gelled up into spikes, and he wore torn jeans and a black tee-shirt with the name of the club printed across the front in white letters, with flames patterning the background.

"Do you recognise either of these people?" Lewis asked, pushing two photographs over the bar.

The man peered at them and shook his head vaguely. Morse was already getting impatient.

"We think they were here on Saturday night," he said, "were you working that night?"

"Yeah," the barman peered closer at the picture of Sandra, taken by Dr Hobson in the morgue, "hey – is she dead?"

"Yes," Morse replied, bluntly, "and we think this man killed her. Have you seen either of them before?"

"Don't think so," the man shrugged, "it was pretty rammed in here on Saturday."

"What about the CCTV?" Lewis asked, gesturing to the cameras around the room.

"They're, uh, not working," came the reply, "we've got a maintenance bloke coming in a couple of weeks…"

Morse growled something under his breath.

"Who else was working on Saturday?" he demanded.

The barman shrugged, and, leaning on the bar, called over to his colleague; "Chris! Get over here, will ya?"

The other man, Chris, a similarly tattooed skinhead, crossed over and looked at Morse and Lewis, and then at the photos on the bar.

"Good grief," he said, picking up the picture of the girl, "I know her – she's a regular."

At last, they seemed to be getting somewhere. Morse leaned forward.

"Tell me about her," he said.

"There's not much to tell," replied Chris, "I've seen her in here a few times. She likes to party, if you know what I mean…?"

"Let's pretend I don't," Morse growled, "tell me."

"She's, um, quite friendly, if you get my drift," Chris responded, "very friendly. One for the boys… especially if they were buying her drinks."

"And did this man buy her a drink that night?" Lewis asked, tapping the picture of Jackson.

The photograph was the most recent on file, taken shortly before Jackson's release on parole. It showed their blue-eyed, blonde haired killer staring vacantly at the camera, a slightly glassy expression on his face. Chris shook his head.

"I'm not sure," he admitted, "you know what it's like – hundreds of faces…"

"Keep the photo," Morse told him, "show it to your other staff. Call me immediately if anyone recognises him, or if he comes back here. And get your CCTV fixed!"

Morse swept out of the bar, Lewis in tow, as they headed back to the car. Morse leaned on the roof of the Jaguar for a moment, considering his next move. Lewis stood and waited patiently, locked out of the car. He scanned the surrounding area – the Inferno club was hidden in a back street, a basement club a little off the beaten track. They were near to a car park – it would not have been difficult to get a young, slight, drunken woman from here into a car and then… where? The mystery was where he had taken her – Lewis doubted that he was still using canal boats, though his preference for leaving the body in his old hunting ground was obvious.

Lewis glanced around the car park, seeing nothing but a few cars, a van, and a battered-looking self-drive caravan. He was just considering roughly where Jackson's car might have been parked when he saw someone at the corner of the building, apparently watching them.

Lewis stopped, and stared at the figure, who was less than fifty yards away. Tall. Slim. Blonde hair… Lewis was running before he'd really registered that it was Jackson. He heard Morse's startled shout behind him, but he did not stop. The figure had taken off ahead of him; behind him, he heard the Jaguar's engine cough into life.

Lewis picked up the pace, and, turning the corner, found himself on a main street, surrounded by dozens of people. Some stared at him quizzically as they passed by, as he stood there looking up and down the street. There was no sign of Jackson. Lewis swore, under his breath, and went back down the alleyway to where Morse was waiting in the car.

"It was Jackson, I'm sure of it," Lewis said, as he got into the car, slamming the door, "sorry, sir – he disappeared into the crowd."

"You're sure it was him?"

"Aye, positive," Lewis frowned, "sir – he knows where I live… Val, and the kids…"

"You'd better give them a call," Morse said, pointing to the in-car phone, "we can either put them up in a safe house, or arrange for a watch on your house."

"Aye, sir – thank you," Lewis said, gratefully.

He called the request through to the station, and was promised that an unmarked patrol car would be stationed outside the house on a twenty-four hour watch. Apparently, CS Strange had already ordered a guard be placed on the houses of Morse, Lewis and Dr Russell – he clearly recalled the threats Jackson had made against all three of them during his trial.

"What do we do now, sir?" Lewis asked, as Morse drove.

"Now, Lewis? We find a pub. I need to think."

~*~

Morse thought his way through three pints, all of which Lewis paid for, and still could not come up with anything worth following up on.

"Lewis," he said, at length, "we are in the unusual position of knowing our victim and knowing our killer, and being completely unable to link the two of them."

"Aye, sir," Lewis agreed, sipping at an orange juice.

"We know that he finds his victims at clubs," Morse continued, staring into the depths of his beer, "he probably buys them a few drinks, they're feeling… 'friendly', as the barman put it… and then he takes them away, and we find them a while later, trussed up in bin bags."

"Where could he be taking them?" Lewis wondered, "If it was a house or a flat, you'd think the neighbours would hear something…"

"Not if she was as drunk as Dr Russell says," Morse shook his head, "it's entirely possible she was completely helpless, and once he'd got his hands around her throat, she wouldn't have been able to scream… Lewis, get a recent picture of Sandra from her aunt, and get it out to the local papers. Someone must have seen something on Saturday night, and we need to link her to Jackson. We're going to get the bastard this time…"

Lewis nodded in obedience, as Morse drained his pint.

"Come on," the Chief Inspector told him, "let's get back to the station. We're not going to accomplish anything sitting around here."

Lewis hid his amused smile as he stood up, abandoned his half-finished drink, and followed Morse out of the pub.

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

Placing Sandra Nelson's photograph in the local newspapers resulted in four prank telephone calls, one false confession, twelve vague reports of sightings of her with men who did not match Jackson's description, and a complaint from the Inferno club that their name had been mentioned in the report and that this was 'bad for business'. Morse was, therefore, not in a good mood. He was sitting in his office two days after the articles had run, and they were still no closer to finding anything out. All of their leads had been exhausted – no one recalled seeing or hearing from Sandra Nelson after she had entered – and apparently left – the Inferno club.

Lewis was sitting at his desk, mindful of his boss's low mood, scanning through a stack of files that had been deposited on his desk that morning. It was probably a waste of time, but unlike Morse, who could sit and think all day, Lewis liked to keep busy. Besides it was only a matter of time before the Chief Inspector asked him…

"Lewis, what is it that you're reading so intently?"

The Sergeant glanced up quickly.

"Traffic warden reports, sir," he replied, quickly, "I noticed the other day that a couple of the cars parked in the lot at the back of the club had parking tickets – I thought I'd check through and see if there was anything interesting for tickets issued that night."

"And is there?" Morse asked, half-interested.

"Not really," Lewis admitted, "certainly no car registered to Jackson – not even a hire car that he could have taken out under a false name. There is one thing, though – there was a caravan parked there, with an overnight ticket – one of those camper-van type of things, you know, mobile home?"

"Yes," Morse leaned forward, "go on, Lewis."

"Well," Lewis hesitated, gathering his thoughts, "the warden noted it in her log, sir, because she thought, well, that it might be gypsies or something – she thought it was unusual to park a caravan in a car park and pay for a twelve hour ticket, when you could just as easily have gone to a nearby campsite… she noted that the vehicle was empty at 6pm, and that's when her shift ended."

"So?" Morse prompted him.

"Well, I remember seeing a camper-van in the car park when we visited the club the other day, sir," Lewis replied, "What if he's not using a car, or a boat, or a flat…"

"But a caravan," Morse finished, for him, "good thinking, Lewis… any details on the van?"

"I've asked for the plates to be run through the database," Lewis reported, "but I think it will come back as a hire vehicle. I've got an APB out on it as well, and there are a few lads from uniform going door-to-door in the area to find out if any of the local business owners have seen anything – it's gone now, sir."

"Long gone," Morse agreed, "Jackson must have been coming back to the van when you spotted him the other day, Lewis. He's on the defensive, probably lying low…"

Suddenly, the 'phone rang on Lewis's desk, and he snatched it up; "Lewis… aye… aye… got it… aye… fifteen minutes."

He hung up, and stood, reaching for his jacket.

"Not lying low, sir," he said, as Morse also got up, quickly, "they've found another body!"

~*~

"There's not much that I can tell you," Dr Russell was saying.

Morse was only half-listening. He had spent all afternoon standing on a path by a drainage ditch, freezing cold in the winter wind, while a team of forensics had worked on their latest grisly find. Back in the lab, in the early evening, he did not feel any warmer or happier about things.

"Just tell me what you can," he growled.

"Well," Russell eyed the victim, who was covered up by a sheet, "the number seven has been carved on to her back. We've got the usual strangulation, rape, mutilation, and binding of the wrists and ankles with cable ties… toxicology will probably show that she was drunk when she was killed. I found a silver and amethyst bracelet around her wrist, although the clasp was broken. It matches a description of one Sandra's aunt said she was wearing when she last saw her."

"All of which proves to the three of us that Jackson killed her, but does nothing to prove it to a jury," Morse growled, "anything else?"

"Well, I haven't done the autopsy yet," Russell pointed out, "you've got to give me a chance, Morse! All I can say is, it looked like there were minute traces of blood on the bracelet clasp, where it was broken – could be Sandra's, our victims', or even Jackson's. I've sent it to the labs with an urgent request for analysis. We've got Jackson's DNA on file."

"Here's hoping for a match," Morse said, apparently somewhat mollified by this, "anything else that you can tell us, for now?"

"Not at the moment," Russell replied, "come back tomorrow when I've had the chance to do the autopsy, will you?"

"Very well," Morse nodded, "thank you, doctor."

Russell watched them go, with a slight smile, before turning back to the sorry figure on the drawer in front of her.

"You'll have to wait until morning, I'm afraid," she murmured, to the corpse, "I'm afraid even the living need their sleep…"

She pushed the cold storage drawer closed, and, nodding to her lab assistants, was already removing her apron, gloves and scrubs as she left the morgue to go home.

~*~

That night, Morse went home, but did not sleep. Instead, he stretched out on the settee, brandy in hand, listening to some Beethoven, just for a change. He was not used to feeling so utterly outdone by a murderer – a man who had, so far, eluded Morse and killed seven women to date. He had, in essence, got away with it simply by being careful, elusive, and unpredictable. When he had last encountered Jackson over four years ago, the man had contented himself with killing once every year or so. His murderous intent had obviously increased while he had been in prison – to kill two victims in the space of a week.

Morning eventually came, and with it, the stiffness of having fallen asleep on his settee yet again. Morse groaned, hauled himself up, fixed himself a coffee, and tipped in a generous measure of brandy to get his brain working. He grabbed the morning papers and went in to work unusually early – he could do the crosswords at his desk while he waited for news to come in from the autopsy, or for inspiration to strike…

When he got to the station, he was almost amused at the surprised look he got from Lewis when he walked in just shy of 9am. The Sergeant recovered quickly, and got up to make the Chief Inspector a cup of tea.

"Morning, sir," he said, placing the mug on the desk, "there's no news yet – I don't think forensics are awake yet…"

"More fool them, Lewis," Morse replied, shaking out the first of his newspapers, "what's your excuse for being here so early?"

"Just couldn't sleep, sir," Lewis shrugged, "and our Val's terrified of letting the kids out of her sight, so she's keeping them off school, and they're going a bit stir-crazy… she won't leave the house…"

"Probably a wise decision," Morse muttered, "don't worry, Lewis – we'll get the bastard soon enough."

"Aye sir," Lewis replied, dutifully, but doubtfully.

Silence fell over the office, broken only by the rustle of Morse's newspaper as he read it, and Lewis's pen scribbling notes on pieces of paper as he dealt with the morning paperwork and signed off reports from the previous day.

Eventually, the telephone rang with the news that Dr Russell's preliminary autopsy report had arrived at the front desk by courier, so Morse dispatched Lewis to collect it. The Sergeant returned a few minutes later, already deeply engrossed in reading the report. He stood in front of Morse's desk as he finished his reading.

Morse waited a few minutes impatiently, and then demanded; "Well?"

"Nothing much, sir," Lewis sighed, "dental records have identified her – Emma Sheriff. Dr Russell says the mother is coming in from Coventry to identify her. She'd come here looking for work about two months ago, but it looks like she ended up on the streets – there's a note here about a record for prostitution."

"Forensics?" Morse asked.

"Sketchy," Lewis replied, handing over the file, "the blood on the bracelet is Jackson's – he must have cut himself on it when the catch broke as he took it off Sandra Nelson. Other than that, the body's immaculately clean. Dr Russell comments that he must wash them down thoroughly and scrape the nails clean."

"He learned a few tricks in prison, then," growled Morse, "at least we've finally got some evidence to tie him to these murders! A broken bracelet taken from one victim, placed on another, with his blood on it. He's slipped up, Lewis, and I want him now. Issue a warrant for his immediate arrest, and get his photo to every bar, beat bobby, reporter and street sweeper you can find. Get this bastard found!"

"Aye sir," Lewis nodded quickly, and was immediately on the 'phone, scrambling their resources.

The afternoon wore on in a constant haze of taking telephone calls, writing reports, and setting up a command hub in the office to co-ordinate the massive man hunt. Morse began to feel the satisfaction of the thrill of the chase – knowing he could finally pin the killings on Jackson, and the net was tightening around the killer. Suddenly, Lewis cut into his train of thought, hanging up a telephone call with an urgent message.

"Sir – a call just came in. They've found the camper-van!"

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

Morse and Lewis made it to the scene in record time, but there was little that they could do as they waited for the forensics team to finish crawling over, under and through the small mobile home. Morse watched as a steady stream of evidence bags came out of the van; he noted several sharp kitchen knives, a roll of black bags, a collection of cable ties, and other ordinary paraphernalia that, when added together, built a grim picture.

"Who called it in?" he asked.

"Highways agency," Lewis replied, checking his notepad, "an officer on a bike found it parked on the verge like this. It looks like it's been abandoned."

"He probably knows that we're after him," Morse said, and nodded to a white-suited SOCO who waved him the all-clear to enter the van, "either that, or for once we've got lucky and he was planning to come back. Come on – let's take a look around."

The two of them stepped up into the cramped van. There was a driver's cabin at the front, and behind that, a small kitchen area, bench, and, to the back, a shower unit and single bunk bed. It was cramped, but oddly habitable, and Morse was struck by the similarity to the canal boats Jackson had used previously.

"We've removed dozens of plastic sheets, covered in blood," reported one of the SOCOs from outside the van, "sir, if you look in the shower unit…"

Morse, careful not to touch anything, peered into the shower unit. He curled his lip – the shower stood over a square basin set into the floor – not exactly a bath, but certainly big enough to fit a body into while you cleaned it down… he swallowed his revulsion, and gestured for Lewis to have a look, as he stepped out of the van to get a breath of fresh air.

"Arrange to have it impounded," Morse ordered one of the uniformed response officers nearby, "and tell forensics I want it going over with a fine tooth-comb – twice, do you hear me?"

"Yes sir," the man said, quickly, and went off to make some calls, and generally to escape the fierce Chief Inspector.

Sergeant Lewis stepped down from the van, and rejoined Morse.

"I can certainly see how he did it," he said, glancing back at the van, "not why, though."

"The main question, Lewis, is where he is now," Morse replied, glancing at his watch, "come on. Let's go and have a drink – there's nothing we can do now but wait for the forensics report."

~*~

A day passed, and then two, and then three. The forensics reports that filtered through were comprehensive, and damning – Jackson's hair and fingerprints were all over the inside of the van, along with traces of Sandra Nelson's and Emma Sheriff's blood, copious amounts of which had been found on plastic sheeting that had been stuffed into a box beneath one of the seats. No jury could fail to convict Jackson on the weight of this evidence. It was exactly what Morse had been hoping for, and yet…

"There's something missing," he said, aloud, suddenly, making Lewis jump slightly and look up from his desk curiously, "what is it?"

Lewis shrugged, sensing that the question wasn't really directed at him, and went back to writing out the report that he was working on. Going on the assumption that they would catch Jackson, he was already preparing the evidence for trial in relation to each of their two victims, a painstaking process. Last time, they had been rushed to trial and the evidence had been shaky, based only on their oral testimony, and that had been rather sketchy at best – Lewis, who had been ill at the time, recalled spending most of his time on the stand fighting to stay conscious and coherent. He would not allow a similar shambles this time around.

He turned to the computer and began to type out his reports and the instructions to the Crown Prosecution Service, anticipating Jackson's imminent arrest. He was just detailing the links between the jewellery taken from a previous victim and placed with a subsequent victim, when he hesitated, something tickling his mind.

Morse, who found the noise of typing quite irritating, noted the sudden absence of the sound, and glanced up from his own work. He was hand-writing his report, which one of the secretaries would later transcribe for him. It was how he preferred to work. He could see a slight crease of a frown of concentration on Lewis's face, as he re-read something he'd typed into that infernal machine of his.

"What is it?" Morse asked, at last, breaking the silence.

Lewis jumped slightly, glanced across at him, and frowned, a half-formed thought in mind.

"I was just…" he pointed at the screen, frowned, and then clarity hit him like a bolt of lightning, "Sir! The jewellery!"

"What about it?" Morse asked, curiously, leaning back in his chair.

"Dr Russell's second pathology report says that Emma Sheriff's mother mentioned a gold necklace given to her by her grandmother," Lewis reminded him, "forensics didn't mention finding it in the van…"

"You're on to something there, Lewis," Morse frowned, "he must have taken it with him… He's not on the run… he's gone hunting!"

~*~

Lewis went home that night bone-weary and running on sheer desperation to keep going. Lynn and Jack, his kids, seemed to sense his sombre mood, and isolated themselves in their rooms. Val tried to reassure him, but it was a tense atmosphere that hung over the house.

"You'll catch him, love," Val assured her husband, "I know you will."

"I know, pet," Lewis replied, as they climbed into bed late that night, "I just hope we catch him before… well, you know…"

Lewis never talked about his work at home, but it was hard to avoid this case; it was too personal, smeared across the pages of all of the local newspapers and several national ones, with televised press conferences and appeals for information leading to an arrest. It was no wonder Val was worried – Jackson knew their address, and the presence of an unmarked car outside the house did little to ease her fears.

Lewis had just about managed to doze off when the bedside phone rang with a shrill scream. He snatched it up before it could ring again, catching sight of the bedside clock – 5:43am.

"Lewis," he mumbled into it.

A voice on the other end of the telephone told him that he had better get up quickly, as a body had been discovered in a field, and this was the address, please could he get there quickly? Lewis muttered that he would be there in about half an hour, and was already getting out of bed reluctantly.

Dressing quickly and combing his hair into place with his fingers, he got into his car, switched on the lights, and, gunning the engine, pulled away quickly. The two officers in the unmarked patrol car watched him go curiously.

"Where's he off to at this time of the morning?" the first, a sergeant, wondered aloud.

Her colleague, a young DC, smirked; "Maybe his wife's in the mood and he's off to find a late night chemist?"

The female sergeant gave him a disgusted look; "I wish I'd never asked."

They went back to their silent vigil over the house that sat in darkness.

~*~

Lewis eventually located what he thought was the correct field. He was next to a row of holiday cottages, both empty for the winter season. He wondered what anybody was doing up here at this time of the year – it was miles from anywhere, pitch dark, and freezing cold. He left the car engine running and the lights on, as he got out of the vehicle and had a quick look around. He must be in the wrong place; he would have expected patrol cars, or at least a response officer on a bike, anything – not to be standing on a dirt track on his own in the early hours of the morning. His spirits lifted slightly at the sight of another set of headlights winding up the road, and he waved it down, recognising Dr. Russell's car.

"Sergeant Lewis!" she greeted him with a mixture of cheerfulness and confusion, "what's going on? I got dragged out of bed with an urgent report of a body – is there any reason why my night shift colleagues can't deal with it?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Lewis shrugged, "I thought I must have taken a wrong turning, but these cottages are definitely the address I was given…"

"Any sign of a body?" Russell asked, reaching into her car and picking up a torch from inside the driver's door, "I really hope this isn't somebody's idea of a joke…"

Lewis was about to reply, when a slight noise behind him made him turn. A figure seemed to materialise out of the darkness behind him. Lewis opened his mouth to shout a warning, but a gloved fist lashed out. The impact cracked across his temple, and Lewis went sprawling. Groaning, he distantly heard Dr Russell's terrified shout, and then a dark shadow loomed over him.

"I'll be watching," Jackson grinned.

Lewis tried to speak, but Jackson curled his hand into a fist, punched him again, and Lewis blacked out.

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

It was cold. That was his first impression. His second impression was that of noise, and a sharp, choking smell. Third, there was someone persistently calling his name.

"Lewis! Please, wake up!"

"Aye, pet, I'm awake," he murmured, thinking it was Val, and then memory came crashing back and he suddenly snapped awake, with a gasp.

He found himself lying on a cold, concrete floor. His wrists were tied tightly behind his back, and his ankles also seemed to be bound. He glanced around – Dr Russell lay nearby, similarly bound, her eyes wide with fear.

"Where are we?" Lewis asked, fuzzily, shaking his head to try to clear it.

"One of the holiday cottage garages," Russell replied, "he hit you, tied me up, and put me in here. Then you. Then your car…"

Lewis frowned, rolled onto his back, and looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, there was his car, in the compact garage, the garage door sealed shut, and the engine running. Lewis groaned, and coughed – the garage was quickly filling with fumes.

"We haven't got long," Russell said, urgently, "we've been in here for about three minutes already – a lethal level of carbon monoxide can build up in the bloodstream in about ten minutes in a closed garage like this!"

Lewis nodded his understanding, coughing, rolling over onto his knees. He managed to shuffle over to the car, and, twisting around, tried the handle. The door came open, and he fell forwards clumsily. Worming his way around the door, he got a look at the keys, and groaned audibly. The keys had been thoroughly taped into place using thick, black duct tape. There was no way he'd be able to unpick it all in under seven minutes, not with his hands tied behind his back. He needed to free himself… he backed out of the car, and fell to the ground, coughing, head pounding, already feeling sick from the effects of the fumes. On his knees, he surveyed the garage, and his eyes fell on a rusty hacksaw hanging from a nail on the wall. He scrambled over to it desperately, as Russell watched from where she lay on the floor.

Awkwardly, Lewis managed to get to his feet, and knocked the saw to the floor with his shoulder. A heavy, leaden feeling began to creep through he body as his numb fingers scrabbled to pick up the blade, and he willed himself to stay conscious. He could see Dr. Russell's eyes already closing.

"Stay with me, doctor!" he called to her, desperately, as he sawed at the cable tie around his wrists as best he could.

The blade kept slipping, and bit cruelly into his skin, making Lewis curse; "damn it… come on you…ah!"

The last exclamation came as the tie finally snapped. Ignoring the deep cuts on his hands from the hacksaw blade, Lewis quickly freed his ankles, and severed the doctor's bonds as well. He dashed to the car, as dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. He clawed at the thick black tape over the keys, desperately trying to peel it off, but it was as if his fingers were refusing to obey. Black sparkles danced at the edge of his vision, as, coughing, he tried to pull back the tape. It wouldn't budge.

"Robbie…" Russell's voice sounded horribly weak.

Lewis tried to think. He grabbed the bottle of water and cloth from the glove box that he normally kept there for cleaning the inside of the car windows. He sloshed water over the cloth, took it to Russell, and pressed it over her nose and mouth. She held it there, gratefully, breathing through the damp cloth in an effort to cut the smoke inhalation. Lewis, choking, went back to the car. In sheer desperation, he yanked the hood open, and, grabbing the cables to the battery, yanked them free. A jolt of energy smacked into his hand, making him yelp, as the car engine died. Lewis, coughing, pitched to his knees – he'd cut the exhaust emissions, but they were still locked in a garage with toxic levels of carbon monoxide in the air. Choking, one hand going to his throat, unable to breathe, he pitched forwards onto the concrete floor, and surrendered to unconsciousness.

~*~

"What do you mean you don't know?" Morse bellowed down the 'phone line, "I've just called his wife and she thought he'd been called out to a scene – there weren't any off-duty call outs last night! You were supposed to be watching the house!"

Morse listened to some profuse apologies from the sergeant, snarled something unsavoury, and slammed the phone down. He stormed out of his office, and grabbed the nearest unfortunate constable.

"You! Find out if there were any suspicious call ins last night," he snapped, "probably somewhere isolated. We've got a missing police officer and I want him found!"

The constable scrambled off, and the station became a hive of activity, and Morse was soon summoned to CS Strange's office.

"Lewis is missing," Morse said, without preamble, "his wife thinks he was called to a crime scene early this morning. There's no record of any such call-out."

"Dr Russell is missing as well," Strange told him, bluntly, "it can't be a coincidence, and I doubt very much it's of their own volition. The entire resources of this station are at your disposal – find them!"

Morse nodded, and strode out quickly, a sense of urgency making him move with an unaccustomed speed. He was interrupted half-way to his office by a competent-looking female DC wearing a black leather trench coat.

"Sir," she said, quickly, "we picked this up at about 3am this morning – a canal boater was interrupted by two cars driving past the canal on their way up to some holiday cottages – he heard noise of a fight and then a car driven off at high speed. He thought it might be drug dealers. No description of the cars, sir, but two vehicles, and in an isolated area…"

"Good work, my dear," Morse said, absently, ignoring the look of irritation that passed briefly over the woman's face at the term of endearment, "can you drive?"

"Of course I can bloody drive," she snapped, and then quickly added, "sir."

"Then let's go!"

~*~

Russell saw Lewis keel over, and, using one hand to keep the cloth over her mouth, she used the other to crawl over to him. She checked his pulse – it was fast and irregular, as she'd suspected, and he was non-responsive. He did not appear to be breathing. Russell took as deep a breath as she could through the cloth, titled Lewis's head back, pinched his nose, and blew hard into his mouth. She repeated this twice more before she was rewarded with a sudden bout of coughing from the Sergeant. She quickly pressed the damp cloth over his mouth to allow him to take a few semi-clear breaths, as she felt her own head spinning from the effects of the fumes.

Lewis, coughing, trying to draw breath, pressed the cloth back into her hand, indicating to her to keep it.

"We need to get out of here," Russell told him, her voice muffled by the cloth.

"I've got an idea," Lewis said, coughing, "… I need you to… stay back…"

Russell obediently pressed herself against the wall, as Lewis hauled himself up to the bonnet of the car. He crudely, clumsily, reattached the disconnected wire to the battery. Dizzy, he half-staggered; half-crawled his way into the car. They key was still stuck in place, so he ripped out the panel beneath the steering wheel. Yanking out the electrics, he exposed the wires, and began tapping them together. He was rewarded with a cough and a roar from the engine, as the exhaust began to kick out foul fumes into the already choking atmosphere of the garage. Russell stared at him, wide-eyed in shock, as he wrapped the two wires together, and climbed into the car.

"Lewis!" she shouted, realising what he was about to do, but choked, coughing, falling back against the wall, overcome by fumes.

Lewis did not waste time closing the door or putting on the seatbelt; he simply hauled himself into the drivers' seat, put the car in gear, released the handbrake, and stomped on the accelerator. The car shot forward, and the garage door crumpled under the impact. Lewis slumped forward over the steering wheel, as Dr Russell crawled forward to try to reach him. However, the fumes overwhelmed her, and she passed out on the floor.

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

Morse's Jaguar kept an easy pace with the patrol cars ahead of him, but it did not feel fast enough. He was practically tailgating the lead patrol car as they screamed up country roads, blue lights flashing. It was still early in the morning, but Morse felt a horrible tension.

"Come on," he murmured, impatiently.

Eventually, the three cars drew up a narrow road and squealed to a halt outside a neat row of hillside holiday cottages, all empty and locked up for the winter. Hoarfrost turned the grass to silver and made their breaths cloud as the officers scrambled from their cars.

"Over here!" shouted the female sergeant.

Morse and the others jogged over, and Morse swore, and then snapped; "Get an ambulance up here!"

One of the officers ran off to obey. Morse glanced up – the garage door had been rammed from the inside, and there was a large gap between the bottom of the garage door and the floor, where it had lifted over the bonnet of the car. Morse could just about see the crumpled front end of the car, and something about it looked horribly familiar… it was Lewis's car, he realised.

Morse knelt down, and peered under the garage door. A familiar figure lay nearby, and Morse reached out, just able to grab Dr. Russell's hand. A flood of warm relief rushed through him when he felt her fingers close around his, and her head moved slightly to look at him in dazed confusion.

"Dr. Russell… Greyling… can you move?" Morse called to her.

He could smell the stink of car fumes in the garage, but the car engine wasn't running – the gap forced open by the impact of the car had obviously let in enough air for her to breathe. She managed a brief nod, and Morse reached into the garage, helping her to crawl out though the narrow gap. She collapsed onto the pavement, gasping, coughing, and Morse cradled her in his arms as she tried to draw breath to speak.

"Lewis," she eventually gasped out, "he's… he's in the car… it… it was Jackson…"

Morse shushed her, as one of the other officers stepped in, and helped Dr. Russell to her feet, taking her over to one of the cars out of the cold winter wind. Morse went back over to the garage, trying to peer through the gap – Dr Russell had been able to slide under there, but there was no way Morse would fit through. He glanced around, and caught sight of the female sergeant in the trench coat. He had no idea what her name was, so he just raised his finger and pointed.

"You! What's your name?"

She looked up at him; "Hogan, sir."

"Can you fit through there?"

"Are you calling me fat?" Hogan was already shedding her black coat.

Morse simply glared at her, as she lay down on the concrete and slithered under the gap.

"Oh, shit," he heard her say, coughing slightly as she spoke.

"Report, sergeant!" he snapped at her, through the gap.

"Sir," she replied, "garage was locked from the outside, otherwise sealed up, looks like the car was left with the engine running…"

Her voice became muffled, and Morse, peering awkwardly under the gap, could see her leaning into the car.

"It looks like Sergeant Lewis used the car as a battering ram to try to get out," Hogan shouted, "he's unconscious, but I don't think it's too serious…"

She broke off, coughing again; "Sorry, sir, it's still a little foggy in here."

"Can you get him out?"

"Safer not to move him, I think, sir," Hogan called back, uncertainly, "with this impact, he might have hurt his neck."

Morse craned his neck to peer under the gap, lying flat on the concrete. He could just about see Hogan leaning into the car, and Lewis slumped face-forward over the steering wheel. Hogan caught him looking and came back to the gap.

"Sorry, sir – could you pass me my coat? It's freezing in here."

Morse grabbed the crumpled heap of soft leather, and passed it through the gap. Hogan grabbed it, shook it out, and then draped it over Lewis's back. Morse finally stood up, as the distant wail of an ambulance siren split the air. He watched as it rumbled up the track, before parking up and two paramedics leapt out. The first immediately began to tend to Dr Russell as the second jogged up.

"There's a fire engine on the way with cutting gear," he explained, quickly, as he started shoving his kit bag under the gap and peeling off his thick winter jacket.

Morse watched as the man wormed his way under the garage door, and Hogan suddenly reappeared from under the gap, taking deep breaths of fresh air.

"He'll be okay, sir," she assured him, patted her pockets, cursed, and then coloured slightly, "ah – sorry sir. Left my cigarettes in my coat pocket…"

"Haven't you inhaled enough noxious gas today?" Morse grunted.

Hogan grinned, and wondered off to cadge a cigarette from one of her colleagues. Morse grew ever more impatient, as he joined Dr Russell, sitting on the tailgate of the ambulance. She had a red emergency blanket around her shoulders, and an oxygen mask over her face. Morse gave her a gentle smile, as she reached out, and he gave her a gentle hug.

"Are you alright?" he asked her.

She nodded, reached up, and took away the mask; "Lewis?"

"He's fine," Morse replied, reassuringly, hoping that he wasn't lying.

Eventually, the fire engine arrived, and a large angle grinder made short work of the garage door, revealing the full mangled mess of the front end of Lewis's car. Morse stood back, allowing the two paramedics to do their work. Lewis was carefully extricated from the wreckage of the car, and eased onto a stretcher. One of the paramedics leaned over him, and then straightened up.

"Chief Inspector Morse?" he called, glancing around.

Morse looked up, and then made his way over to the stretcher.

"Make it quick, we need to get him to hospital," the medic told him, shortly.

Morse simply grunted and waved him away, leaning over the stretcher. Lewis saw him, and pawed off the oxygen mask that had been strapped to his face.

"Sir," he gasped, "Jackson…"

"We know it was him, Lewis," Morse cut in, "what happened?"

"Don't know, sir," Lewis tried to shake his head, and winced, "but he's watching…"

"He's here?"

"He said… he'd be watching…"

Morse straightened up and gestured to the two paramedics; "Get them both out of here – and look after them! Hogan!"

"Sir?" the sergeant trotted over, quickly finishing her cigarette and flicking it into the gutter.

"Get some more men up here and get this place searched," Morse snapped, "Jackson could still be here – Lewis certainly seemed to think so."

The two of them watched as the ambulance pulled away, lights flashing, but the siren mercifully silent. Hogan turned. There were three other constables attending, spread out over the area, and the firemen who were already packing away their kit. She put her fingers to her lips, and gave an ear-piercing whistle that made Morse flinch. The three constables, however, responded like Pavlov's dogs to a bell.

"Split up," Hogan told them, "search these houses and garages – they're holiday lets, so there's probably a key hidden somewhere. Be on your guard – Jackson might still be here."

Morse watched as the four of them spread out, beginning a methodical search. He pulled his winter coat tighter around himself for warmth, and leaned against the side of his distinctive Jaguar, deep in thought. Suddenly, there was a shout from one of the constables, and the other three converged around one of the other garages.

"Sir!" Hogan was waving to him; well, at least he hadn't been summoned with a whistle.

Morse turned, and crossed slowly over to the garage. He had a nasty feeling that he knew what was in there. A brief glimpse inside confirmed his worst suspicions, when he saw the tied up black bag. He growled a curse, and then turned on Hogan, who had regained her leather coat and lit up another cigarette, staring in horrified fascination at the black bag, knowing what it contained. The bloodstains in the garage spoke volumes for the contents. Morse looked anywhere but at the bag, as he spoke.

"Get the coroner up here. _Now._"

~*~


	7. Chapter 7

The cold morning gave way to afternoon, and then late evening. In the Radcliffe Infirmary, Dr. Russell lay on a bed, wrapped in a warm blanket, breathing deeply through an oxygen mask, asleep. Morse crept quietly to her bedside, mindful of the three other women sleeping in the side ward. He carefully placed the flowers that he had brought into a convenient vase on the bedside cabinet. She stirred slightly, opened her eyes, and smiled in recognition.

"Hello," Morse said, a little uncertainly, perching awkwardly on the edge of the bed, "how are you feeling?"

"Better, thank you," Russell replied, removing the oxygen mask and sitting up a little, giving him a smile, "there shouldn't be any lasting damage. They've said I can go home in the morning."

"Good," Morse nodded, keeping his voice low.

Only his badge had managed to get him past the militant ward sister, and he could see her hovering by the doorway, glaring at him disapprovingly.

"How's Lewis?" Russell asked, reaching out to put a hand on his arm.

"I… haven't seen him, yet," Morse admitted, "but he's fine. You concentrate on getting better."

Russell gave him another one of her smiles. Morse glanced away quickly.

"It was Jackson who called you on the fake call-out," he told her, "he must have got your – and Lewis's – number from the phone book. I'm ex-directory, so… well, anyway. Did… did he say anything… to you?"

Russell shook her head slowly; "Not that I can remember. I… I got there after Lewis. He… Jackson, that is… seemed to come out of nowhere. He… he hit Lewis, twice I think, and knocked him out. He tied me up, and, and put us in the garage. When he drove the car in, I, I thought he was going to run us over with it…"

She broke off, and shook her head at the memories, tears welling up in her eyes. Morse drew her into a comforting hug, as she fought to regain her composure.

"I'm sorry," he said, quietly, "but I really need to know what happened."

"It was Lewis that got us out," she said, at last, quietly, "he found a hacksaw to cut the ties, and then did something – got the car engine to cut out, somehow… the fumes, though…"

She shook her head again, took a deep breath, and continued; "We couldn't get out of the garage, so Lewis… I thought he'd gone mad when he got the car started again, but… when he… the door…"

"I saw," Morse said, softly, "go on."

"There was enough of a gap… to let clean air in," she told him, leaning back on the bed and giving him a sorrowful look, "I… tried to get to Lewis, but the fumes… I must have passed out. Luckily, with the air coming in, it was enough to keep us alive…"

She shivered, and Morse took her hand in sympathy.

"Did you catch him?" she asked, suddenly, looking at him.

"No," Morse shook his head, regretfully, "he was long gone…"

"I sense a 'but', Morse…"

He sighed; "But… we found another body."

~*~

"Do we know who she was?" Lewis croaked, sipping from a cup of water.

"Not yet," Morse replied, from the armchair by the bed, which he had turned to face the sergeant, "but we think she was murdered in the garage… how are you feeling?"

"I've been better," Lewis admitted, holding up his bandaged hands, ruefully, "cut myself with on the saw a few times, like, and got a burn from the car engine. All superficial, mind…"

Morse nodded, noting the large bruise and black eye his sergeant was sporting.

"We've got every available man – and woman – out on the streets looking for Jackson," Morse said, trying to sound reassuring, "we've also doubled the guard on your house, so don't worry about Mrs Lewis…"

Lewis managed to raise a half-smile, and murmured his thanks.

"They're letting me out tomorrow," he muttered, sleepily, "no lasting damage…"

Morse made no comment, as Lewis slowly fell asleep. 'No lasting damage' indeed – he had seen the terrified expression on Dr Russell's face, and the haunted look in Lewis's eyes. He waited until he was sure that Lewis was asleep, and then slipped out. He had some thinking to do.

~*~

Morse came in late the next morning, and was quite surprised to find Lewis in the office, at his desk, with a mug of tea in his left hand, a pen in his right, and the 'phone cradled to his shoulder. He raised the mug in greeting to Morse, scribbled a note on the pad in front of him, and finished the call. Morse dropped heavily into his chair, leaning back and giving the sergeant an appraising look.

"Are you supposed to be here?" he asked, eventually.

Lewis was pale, and the bruises on his face stood out starkly. The bandages were gone from his hands, but Morse could still see the white surgical tape that held some of the deeper cuts together in place of stitches.

"They needed someone to man the phone, sir," Lewis replied, "that was Dr. Green, the junior pathologist – the woman you found in the garage was Fiona Smith. Definitely Jackson's eighth victim. The usual MO, and Emma's necklace was in the bag…"

"Have we had the identity confirmed?"

"Her fiancé identified her early this morning," Lewis replied, leaning back in his chair, tiredly, "he also said her engagement ring was missing – yellow gold, set with sapphire and diamond."

Morse sighed; "Bastard. We were so bloody close…"

"Sorry, sir," Lewis murmured, apologetically.

Morse shot him a surprised look, but let the comment slide. The 'phone rang on Lewis's desk, and he stared at it for a moment, before picking it up reluctantly.

"Lewis…"

Morse picked up his newspaper and shook it out, focussing on the half-finished crossword. There were a couple of clues that were really quite challenging this morning…

"Aye, we'll be right there," Lewis was saying.

Morse sighed, folded the paper up, and dropped it onto his desk. It seemed that there would be no rest for either of them.

"Verified call in, sir," Lewis reported, already getting to his feet and reaching for his jacket, urgently, "Jackson's been spotted…"

"Who called it in?"

"Sergeant Hogan."

"But isn't she meant to be guarding your…?"

"Aye, sir!"

"Oh, shit…"

~*~

Lewis drove his borrowed police pool car with a reckless abandon that made Morse close his eyes and grimly hang on to the door panel. They screeched to a halt outside Lewis's house, and the sergeant was out of the car virtually before it had stopped moving. He was through the front door before Morse was even half-way out of the car. He followed the sergeant at a more sedate pace, scanning the street carefully. He went into the house, where he found Val and Lewis in the kitchen. DS Hogan was in the living room, drinking a cup of tea, and DC Michaels was in the back garden, playing with the kids.

"Thank God," Lewis was saying, relieved, giving his wife a hug.

"Indeed," Val replied, and ushered them both towards the living room, "come on – you look like you could both do with a nice cup of tea…"

Morse went through to the living room and sank into an armchair, gratefully. Hogan glanced across and nodded to him.

"I've sent Bailey and Maskall on a patrol around the block, sir," she reported, "if Jackson's still creeping around, they'll pick him up."

Lewis nodded, silently, sitting tensely on the edge of his seat. Vale appeared, bearing two mugs of tea. Morse mumbled his thanks, and Lewis winced as he took the hot mug with sore hands.

"Thanks, pet," he murmured, as she took a seat next to Hogan on the settee.

"This is a nice coat," Vale said, brightly, fingering the leather of the cuff of Hogan's black jacket, "where did you get it?"

"A little specialist shop in London," Hogan replied, with a quick smile, "nifty little place just around the corner from Covent Garden…"

"Oh, I think I know the place!" Val responded, delighted, "I love shopping in London, have you ever been to…?"

Morse very quickly tuned out the idle chatter, as Lewis gave him a knowing half-smile, drinking his tea silently. Morse suddenly realised why Lewis liked to work a double shift when Mrs Lewis had her knitting group around. So far, the two women had talked for about ten minutes, without exchanging any pertinent information, as far as Morse could tell. Morse suddenly wondered why they were still sitting here, and he realised that he was not convinced that Jackson was not still hanging around somewhere. Lewis seemed to sense it, too, and kept nervously glancing out of the window.

Suddenly, there was a loud bleeping, and Hogan reached into the depths of her coat, producing a mobile radio-transmitter.

"Hogan here, go ahead."

"No sign of Jackson, ma'am," reported a distorted, distant-sounding voice, "permission to return to the house, over?"

Hogan glanced across at Morse, who nodded reluctantly.

"Granted," Hogan replied, into the radio, "out."

She flicked off the channel, dropping the handset back into whichever hidden pocket it had come from. She glanced across at Val apologetically.

"I'm sorry," she said, "he must have slipped away…"

"Don't worry about it," Val replied, with a forced smile, "more tea?"

"Ah, we need to be getting back to the station," Morse cut in, quickly, giving Lewis a look, "unless you'd rather I left him here?"

"Take him with you," Val laughed, making a shoo'ing motion with her hands, "he'll only sit here and fret otherwise. You can leave Sergeant Hogan with me though – I think she likes my home-made fruit cake."

"Don't worry, Robbie, I'll keep my eyes open," Hogan promised him, giving a significant nod towards the window.

He smiled and thanked her, and the two of them slipped out of the house quickly, heading back towards Lewis's replacement pool car. Lewis went to unlock the car, and realised that he hadn't locked it in his rush to get to the house.

Morse climbed into the passenger seat, as Lewis dropped into the driver's side, and put the key in the ignition. His other car had been a total write-off, and he wasn't entirely happy with this new model. His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp intake of breath from Morse, and the sensation of something very sharp and very cold being pressed into the side of his neck. He managed to turn his head, just enough to see familiar, hate-filled blue eyes staring back at him from the back-seat foot-well, hidden from a casual glance from the outside of the car.

"Why can't you just bloody die?" Jackson spat, his hand shaking with anger, "They knew how to die, and now I'm going to bloody teach you… now… drive!"

~*~


	8. Chapter 8

Lewis had little choice but to obey. He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, and his hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel, the livid cuts stark and sore. His head was reeling – Jackson, their killer, the evasive genius, was sitting in the back of his car. He just wished the guy was in handcuffs. Jackson directed them out of the housing estate, evaded the city centre, and soon had them on a quiet B-Road. The road was icy, and a thought began to form in Lewis's mind… he'd already wrecked one car this week… he was torn with indecision. If it had been just him, maybe, but with Morse in the car as well… he risked a desperate glance across at the older man. Morse, as usual, was hanging on to the doorframe grimly, his expression tight.

"Keep your eyes on the road," Jackson snapped, keeping the knife pressed to the side of Lewis's throat.

He was now sitting on the back passenger seat, with no belt on. Lewis flicked another glance across at Morse, and decided that he had little other choice. Suddenly, he jerked his head away from the knife, and wrenched the steering wheel to the right as he did so.

"Hold on, sir!" he called, desperately.

Tyres squealed on tarmac, as the car slewed across the road, bounced into a ditch, and crashed into a sturdy tree. Lewis was thrown painfully forward into the steering wheel, as Morse gave a shout of alarm. Jackson, however, was hurtled forward by the impact, crashing into the dashboard.

There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the hiss of air escaping from the damaged radiator at the front of the car, and the gradual ticking of cooling metal from the engine. Morse blinked to clear his vision, shaking his head, marvelling that he was still alive. His neck ached dully, and his chest and shoulder was bruised from the impact of the seatbelt, but he was still alive…

Lewis coughed, and managed to pull himself upright, pressing a hand to his chest, no doubt similarly winded and bruised. Morse could see the sergeant's hands shaking, and the distant stare in his eyes, and recognised the symptoms of shock immediately.

"Are you alright, Sergeant?" he asked, coughing slightly to clear his throat, and then said; "Lewis? Are you alright?"

"Ah…aye sir," Lewis stammered, raising his hand to touch a cut on his forehead, "our Val's going to go spare… let alone the desk sergeant when he hears about this car…"

Morse suddenly remembered the presence of another in a car, and looked down at the recumbent Jackson, sprawled awkwardly between the two seats. He glanced away, quickly, at the sight of blood, and then climbed out of the car. Lewis looked down at the figure and slowly, hesitantly, reached out and checked for a pulse. He found one, and wondered if he should be relieved by that. He felt numb. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and used it to pick up the knife. He carried it at arms' length as he got out of the car on shaking legs that didn't seem to want to support him. Morse caught his arm as he stumbled, and pulled him up the bank, before getting him to sit down at the roadside. The grass was cold and wet, but the discomfort was a distant sensation. Morse was already back at the car, using the radio – thankfully still functional – to call for urgent back-up. He re-joined Lewis, and, for lack of anything better to do, sat down next to the sergeant.

In the field opposite, a cow lowed gently, the sound carrying in the cold, still air. Morse shifted position uncomfortably, and looked at his watch. They had been driving for about twenty minutes, so a squad car could be here in ten… a distant siren eventually rewarded him, and he nudged Lewis. The two of them stood up, bruised, battered and dishevelled, as the patrol cars rolled up, accompanied by an ambulance.

"Come on, Lewis," Morse said, gently leading the sergeant away by the shoulder, "it's over… and… I think I owe you a drink."

~*~

Six weeks later, the visible bruises had healed, and the mental scars were fading. Morse sat on an uncomfortable bench in an over-heated court room, stiff in one of his best black suits. Lewis and his wife were also there, as were Dr Russell, DS Hogan, DC Michaels, and a number of other officers. The Judge had heard the ruling of the jury, and turned to glower at the figure in the dock. The car crash had done a number on Jackson's once charming face; one eye was virtually closed by a livid scar that ran from his hairline down to his cheek, and his two front teeth were badly chipped from the impact with the dashboard. He had one wrist still in plaster, and ever so often, cast murderous glances up at Morse and the others.

"Jeremy Andrew Jackson," the Judge intoned, leaning forward in his chair, "it is the finding of this court that you are guilty of three counts of murder, two counts of attempted murder, and two counts of abduction. The evidence against you was substantial; and, though your Counsel has done a sterling job in defending you, it is fair to say his task was insurmountable. Your crimes have been despicable in the extreme, carried out with malice aforethought and with no regard for the lives you took. You have shown no pity or remorse for your heinous crimes, and no doubt if left unchecked you would kill again. I therefore have no hesitation in imposing upon you three life sentences, to be served concurrently. Custody sergeant – take him back to the cells."

Morse watched with grim satisfaction as Jackson, handcuffed, was led away. He stood with the rest of the court and bowed as the Judge retired to his chambers, before they filtered out, making a bee-line for the cafeteria. Lewis fetched the drinks, as Morse, Val and Dr Russell settled around a table.

"We got him," Morse said, grimly, "we finally got him."

"Yes," Dr Russell picked at the edge of her paper cup, "Morse, listen – there's something I've got to tell you… I'm leaving Oxford."

"What?" Morse said, surprised, "leaving Oxford? Why?"

"This case," Russell shrugged, "it got a bit too… personal. I've… I've accepted a teaching position in London."

Morse gaped for a moment, and sighed.

"I'd rather you didn't," he said, gruffly, "it takes ages to find a decent pathologist."

Russell laughed, and patted his arm; "Any time you want a second opinion, just give me a call."

"I hope there's going to be a good leaving party first," said Val, with a smile.

"Oh, I expect so," Russell said, lightly, "some nice, quiet, country pub…"

"And every off duty cop and doctor for miles around," Morse finished, "utter carnage."

He downed the rest of his tea, and gave it a distasteful look.

"Come on," he said to them, "let's go and find something stronger… and have a quiet little celebration of our own…"

Lewis smiled and stood up, taking Val's hand as they walked out of the building. Russell slipped her hand through Morse's elbow, and they left the Court in a lighter mood than they had experienced for weeks.

~*~

In a cell, somewhere beneath the building, Jackson's wrist ached painfully and the scar over his eye stung, a constant reminder of his failure. He smouldered with a silent rage, lying on the narrow bunk, staring straight up at the ceiling. He promised himself that he would get out – after all, he had done it before. And, no matter how long he would have to wait… he would have his revenge.

And he was already planning how.

~*~

Finis

~*~


End file.
